The Complaint Of Sigebert. Poem by Thomas Blenerhasset

Two partes in one a Heardman here must play,
My tale must tende eche princes lyfe to mende,
And this my talke most playnely must displaye,
Howe farre a subiect may him selfe defende
Agaynst his leache, his souerayne Lorde and king,
If his default his common weale dooth bring
To miserie: therefore a litle while
Attende, and knowe the tenoure of my stile.

A subiect I of base and lowe degree,
This headlesse corps of lyfe I did depriue,
(King Sigebert it was) with crueltie.
Whose lust was lawe, whilst he was here aliue,
To feele my force it was his destinie,
Then crueltie I wrackt with crueltie,
And to reuenge the wrong that earst he wrought,
With losse of lyfe his lawlesse lust he bought.

This Sigebert the Saxons rulde by West,
Their auncient lawes he at his lyst did chaunge,
For which his commons did him much detest.
The Duke of Cornwell woulde not let him raunge
Thus at his wyll, but wisht him like a friend,
To mende his faultes, or els his life to ende.
Then he in rage this Duke my masters lyfe,
His cruel handes bereaude with blooddy knife.

A lawelesse life to lawlesse death dooth hale,
When witlesse wil, wyl passe the power of may:
Then il mishappe dooth drowne in Dolours Dale,
The peruerse Prince, whose wit doth beare the sway.
Iust Abels blood to God for vengeance calde,
For blood with blood the Bloodsheader is thralde,
And him whom here before you I present,
For sheading bloode, my blade his lyfe hath hent.

As he three yeares his people did oppresse,
Then they whose backe that burden coulde not beare,
With one consent they did his state distresse,
To reaue him of his Crowne they did not feare,
They him desposde from honour and renowne:
His hateful happe so frowardly did frowne,
That he who had a kingdome but of late,
Forlorne he nowe must begge from gate to gate.

Doo nothing muse at his deserued happe,
For many more as he their liues haue led:
Ioues vengeance iust such wretches dooth inwrappe,
With change most strange, when he their blood will shed.
Of Dionise of Syracusia,
Of Neroes death, of Phalaris decay,
Who list to reade, he passing plaine shal finde,
That he of heauen their sorrowe hath assignde.

And out of doubte God did ordayne the fal
Of him, whom here I headlesse haue in hand,
Who wandring in a wood amidst his thral
I mette by chaunce, of whom I did demaund
His name, and place: who thus replide with feare:
O friende, I am for meate nowe staruen wel neare,
Geue me therefore I thee beseech and pray
Some meate, to keepe my carkasse from decay.

Some Pilgrime poore, or wayfaryng man him straight
I iudgde, and gaue him what my scrippe would yeelde,
And whilst we both thus on a banke dyd baite,
From sighes and sobbes him selfe he coulde not wielde,
Which made me aske agayne his name and place,
But silent he did mourne with frowning face:
Yet at the last by vrging too and fro,
He thus declarde the cause of al his woe.

O miser I, more wretch then thee by much,
I neuer coulde compare with thine estate.
This hearde of Swine against thee neuer grutch.
I kept a hearde, which did their Heardman hate,
A hateful heard of murmuring men I meane,
Which dyd depriue me of my honour cleane.
And now I leade my lothsome life you see,
Impalde amidste a maze of misery.

With chaunged chaunce (aye me) I chased am,
And frowning Fate such sorrowe hath assignde,
That lothing life, most like a quiet Lambe,
My naked necke to blocke of bale I binde.
With cruel knife (O Care) come shread my twist,
So shal my soule by corps decay be blist.
But sith that Care nor Fate wil doo this deed,
Doo thou the same I thee beseech, with speede.

Fyrst hatefull hope with flattering face did faune,
With dreade when deepe despaier would haue drownde,
Then chaunged chaunce did checke me with the paune
Of woful want, when good successe did sound
A blessed blast: and nowe (to tel the truth)
I haue the mate, by raging Rooke of ruth.
Lo thus I liue, which dayly wishe to dye:
And life (alas) dooth make my misery.

If lothsome life (of this my corps the king)
Dooth moue one way, the Bishop bids mee backe:
If to that poynt, the Queene me backe doth bring,
On thother side, the Knight dooth woorke my wracke,
The other poyntes with Pannes be al possest,
And here the Rooke of ruth dooth reaue my rest.
And being brought into this strange estate,
I do confesse my selfe to haue a mate.

Sith sorrowe so hath seasde vpon my bones,
That nowe too late I doo lament my losse,
And sith no meanes may turne my gastfull grones
To ioyfull glye, sith trouble still doth tosse
Me to and fro, in walteryng waues of woe:
Death is my friend, and life I compt my foe.
Which death though once my feeble fleshe did feare,
Yet now I fayne would feele his murdring speare.

In gurging gulfe of these such surging seas,
My Pouer soule who drownd you wil request,
I wretched wight haue sought mine owne disease,
By myne owne meanes my state it was distrest.
For whilst I meant to make my lust a lawe,
Iustice me from my high estate did drawe.
So that I fynde, and feele it nowe with payne,
Al worldly pompe, al honour is but vayne.

Which honour I to fiery flames compare,
For when they flash and flourishe most of all,
Then suddaynely their flamings quenched are.
For proofe whereof, to minde nowe let vs cal
Antigonus, and Ptollemeus Great,
Caesar, and Mithridate, we may repeat,
With Darius, and great Antiochus,
Cambises eke, and conquering Pyrrhus.

And I the last myght fyrst haue had my place,
They al as I with flaming fierie showe,
Were quenched quite: Dame Fortune did deface,
Yea hatefull happe, euen then did ouerthrowe
Vs most, when most we had our hartes desire.
When most we flourisht like the flames of fyre,
Euen then the seas of sorrowe did preuayle,
And made vs weare a blacke wamenting sayle.

And here before my death, I wyl repeate
To thee the thing which I of late did dreame,
That thou and al the worlde may see, how great
A care it is to rule a royal realme.
My dreame shal showe, that blisse doth not consist
In wealth nor want: but he alone is blest,
Who is content with his assigned fate,
And neuer striues to clime to higher state.

When seemely Sol had rest his glittering gleames,
And Nox the earth with darkenesse did impale:
Dame Sinthia then with her bright burnishte beames,
The shadowed shades of darkenesse did assayle,
Then Somnus causde my senses al to quayle,
On careful couche then being layde to rest,
With doubtful dreames I strangely was distrest.

In cottage colde where care me thought did keepe,
With naked neede and want of wherewithal:
Where pouertie next beggers doore did creepe,
And where expences were so passing smal,
That al men deemde that man forethrongd with thral,
Which there did dwel, euen there from bondage free,
I viewde a man al voyde of miserie.

And whilst I musde howe he in bliue of blisse
Coulde leade his life amidst that caue of care,
From princely Court proceeded eare I wist,
A man, with whom there might no man compare.
His wealth, his wit, his courage were so rare,
That none before nor since were like to him:
Yet he mee thought in waues of woe did swimme.

This man had al that men could wyshe or craue
For happy state, yet nought he had indeede:
The other, he had nought that men would haue,
Yet had he al, beleeue it as thy Creede.
This saying of that happy man I reade,
That hauing nought, yet al thinges so I haue,
That hauing nought, I nothing more doo craue.

The king mee thought with al his Courtly trayne,
Past to the place where pouertie did dwel,
With frowning face and with a troubled brayne,
With woe and want, his vexed vaynes did swell,
With myrth and ioy the poore man did excel.
And being come vnto his house ymade
Of one poore hogsheadde, thus to him he sayde:

Diogenes, thou leadst a lothsome life,
Me thinke thou mightst much better spend thy time
Within my Court, both thou and eake thy wife:
Thou by that meanes to high estate maist clime:
I haue the wealth, and thou art voyde of crime,
And loe, before thy face I here am prest
To geue thee that, which thou shalt nowe request.

Stand backe (Sir Kyng) thy vaunting vowes be vaine,
I nothing recke thy promise, goodes, nor lande,
And Titans stately streames would me sustayne
With heate, if thou from thys my doore wouldst stande:
Thou takst away much more then thy commaunde
Can geue agayne: thy giftes so vile I deeme,
That none but fooles such follies do esteeme.

With Conquest thou hast wonne the worlde so wide,
And yet thou canst not winne thy wandring wyll:
Thou wouldest winne an other worlde beside,
But tushe, that facte doth farre surpasse thy skyll.
Thou neuer wilt of Conquest haue thy fyll,
Til Death with daunting darte hath conquerd thee,
Then must thou leaue behynd, thy Monarchie.

With greate assaultes my selfe I haue subdude,
In all respectes, I haue my hartes desyre,
With a contented minde I am endude,
To hygher state I neuer will aspire.
More like a Prince then any pore Esquire,
I leade my life: and sith my state is such,
Aske thou of me, for I can geue thee muche.

All dasht with dreade me thought in fuming heate
He sayd, departing thence in hast with speede,
If I were not Alexander the Great,
I would become Diogenes in deed,
Who leades his life al voyd of woeful dread.
He hath the welth which I cannot obtayne,
I haue the welth which wise men do disdayne.

I liue in feare, I languishe al in dreade,
Welth is my woe, the causer of my care,
With feare of death I am so il bestead,
That restlesse I much like the hunted Hare,
Or as the canuiste Kite, doth feare the snare.
Ten hundred cares hath brought me to the baye,
Ten thousand snares for this my lyfe men laye.

When Philip he of Macedon the king,
One Realme me lefte, I could not be content,
Desier prickte me to an other thing,
To winne the worlde it was my whole intent,
Which donne, an other worlde to winne I ment.
When least I had, then most I had of blesse,
Now, al the worlde, and al vnquietnesse.

No woe to want of contentation,
No welth to want of riches and renowne,
For this is seene in euery nation,
The highest trees be sonest blowen downe:
Ten kinges do dye before one clubbishe Clowne.
Diogenes in quiet Tunne doth rest,
When Caesar is with carking care distrest.

Wherewith me thought he was departed quite,
And Morpheus that sluggishe God of sleepe,
Did leaue my limmes, wherewith I stoode vpright,
Deuising long what profite I could reape
Of this my dreame, which playnly did expresse
That neyther want nor wealth doth make mans blesse.
Who hath the meane with a contented minde,
Most perfect blesse his God hath him assignde.

But I, who liude a Crowned king of late,
And nowe am forste of thee to begge my bread,
I cannot be content with this estate,
I lothe to liue, I would I wretch were deade:
Despayer she doth feede me with decay,
And Pacience is fled and flowne away.
Do thou therefore O Heardeman play thy parte,
Take thou this blade, and thrust it to my harte.

O Sir, I sayd, the Goddes defend that I
Should causelesse kil a man in myserye,
Tel me thy name and place, then by and by
I wyl prouide for thyne aduersitie.
Then he replide, my name is Sigeberte,
I am the man which wrought thy masters smart:
I rulde of late this Realme euen at my liste,
Take thou reuenge with that thy friendly fiste.

And wel content: I wyl reuenge with speede
The death of him whome causelesse thou didst kill.
King Sigebert, and art thou he in deede?
Sith he thou art, dispatch and make thy wyl,
For to my Lorde this day I wyl present
Thy head: therefore thy former faultes repent,
Thou seest the blocke on which thy lyfe must ende,
Cal thou for grace that God may mercie sende.

Wherewith he kneelyng by the block of bale,
Dispatch (quoth he) and do that friendly deede:
O welcome death, and farewel Fortune fraile,
Dispatch good friende, dispatch my lyfe with speede.
Wherewith, on blocke he stretcht his necke out right,
And sayd no more, but praying me to smite,
I gaue the stroke which ended al his care,
A blouddie stroke, which did my death prepare.

For I who hopte to haue some great rewarde
For killing of my maisters fathers foe:
Was hanged strayght, my cause was neuer hearde,
Such was my chance and wel deserued woe.
For when my Lord had heard me tel the tale,
Howe I his king and myne did there assayle,
His frowning face did put me in great feare,
He sighte and sobde, and sayd as you shal heare.

O Caitife vile, O impe of Satans seede,
And hast thou kylde our Soueraigne Lorde and kyng?
His due deserte deserueth death in deede,
Yet what made thee to doo so vile a thinge?
What though he dyd my Father causelesse kyll?
What though he rulde the Realme with lawlesse wyll?
Shall we therefore, with cruel bloudy knyfe,
Depriue our Lorde and king of vitall lyfe?

O filth fye, may subiectes false surmise,
With murthering mindes their Gouernour resiste?
That may not be: for Tully wonderous wyse,
Plato, in whom true knowledge dooth consiste,
They both agreed that no man ought to kyll
A Tyrant, though he hath hym at his wyll.
Yet thou (thou wretche) this bloudy deede hast donne,
The like was neuer seene vnder the Sunne.

When God wyl plague the people for their sinne,
Them then to scourge he doth a Tyrant sende:
We should therefore that subiectes be, begin
With earnest minde our former faultes tamende:
Which if we do, it is to great auaile,
Mans force is fonde, fighting cannot preuayle.
And he who doth resist the Magistrate,
Resisteth god, repenting al to late.

If subiects be by peruerse Prince opprest,
They then must pray that God the change maye make:
Which God no doubt Rebellion doth detest,
No subiect may his sworde nor armoure take
Against his Prince, whom god hath placed there.
Yet hath this wretch al voyde of Subiectes feare,
Destroyde a King whome God did thrust from throne,
Alas poore king, thy death I do bemone.

But he who hath the lyngring lyfe destroyde,
Shalbe destroyd, and finde it passing playne,
That no man may a Princes lyfe anoye.
Although the Prince desiers to be slayne,
Yet subiectes must from sheading bloud refrayne.
From which seeing this wretch could not abstayne,
Let him be hangde as I before decreed,
A iust rewarde for his so vile a deed.

Then I forthwith to end my lyfe was led,
I hopte to haue preferment for my deede,
I was preferde, and hangde al saue the head,
Did euer man the lyke example read?
Not one I thinke, therefore good Memorie,
In register inrolle thou this for mee,
That they who liue and read the fall I felt,
May finde how Fate most strangely with me delte.

Yet my desert no doubt dyd death deserue,
Though hatred dyd not make mee kyll my kyng,
Yet lucre lewde dyd force my feete to swarue,
That hatefull hap, mee to this bale dyd bring.
Let them then learne that heedlesse liue by hope,
Her hatefull hestes wyll bring them to the rope:
And happy he, who voyde of hope can leade
A quiet lyfe, all voyde of Fortunes dread.

Perillus he who made the Bull of Brasse,
Lyke him I hopte to haue some great rewarde,
But he in brasen belly broyled was,
And to a Skarfe of Hempe I was preferde.
So they that meane by others harmes to rise,
Their dying day shall ende with dolefull cries,
And here I ende, approuing that most true,
From wicked workes no goodnesse can insue.